"WHEN THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE."—[See next Page.]

WHEN THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE.

A Christmas Play in One Act.

BY EDGAR FAWCETT.

CHARACTERS.

(The action passes in the spacious old castle of the Baron. The time is about a.d. 1600.)

Scene.

A portion of the grand upper hall in the Château de Beautemps. Large antique fire-place at back, in which burns a sleepy wood fire. Tapestried doors R. and L. Also R. and L., beyond either door, entrances to corridors that communicate with main hall. Large draped window R. of fire-place. Near R. door small cabinet, on which is a silver candelabrum with lighted candle. Near door at L. a similar candelabrum resting on heavy carved chair. As curtain rises, Henri and Lucienne are discovered beside chimney-place in act of hanging up stockings before it. Lucienne wears a costume of brocaded silken stuff reaching to the ground, and a small velvet hood, whence her hair flows in rich abundance. Henri wears doublet with large collar, and knee-breeches.

Lucienne (going to window, drawing curtains, and looking out. She then comes to front of stage).

How cold and still! With what an icy glow
The stars are shining over the château!
And yonder, where the chapel roofs rise dark,
The crusted snow gives out a diamond spark.
Eleven strokes the great hall clock has rung.
Well, brother Henri, is your stocking hung?

Henri (joining Lucienne at front of stage).

All's ready, sister; see how slim and white
Both stockings glimmer in the doubtful light.
I can't help wondering, as I watch them thus,
What gifts the Christinas Saint will bring to us.

Lucienne.

Oh, everything we've wanted for a year!
To me a painted doll in bridal gear;
To you a sword, a cup and ball, a top;
To me, again—

Henri.

Lucienne, I pray you, stop.
Dear sister, I've a secret to confess.

Lucienne (eagerly).

What is it, Henri? Anything I'll guess?
Ah, there! your face reveals it ere you speak:
You want a falcon, beautiful and sleek,
To hunt with in the spring, when field and glade
Hear the sweet bugles of the cavalcade.
Who knows?—Perchance good luck your bird may bring,
Tied to the chimney by a silken string.

Henri.

No, no, Lucienne; in vain your wits would tire
To guess just what it is that I desire.
I want—come closer; let me speak it low—
I want—

Lucienne (in alarm).

Why, Henri, what disturbs you so?

Henri.

The wish to look on that famed Saint who brings
At twelve each Christmas-eve such pretty things;
To watch old Santa Claus, as plain as day,
Steal to this hall in some mysterious way;
To mark his long white beard, his elfish mien,
And see what others have so rarely seen.

Lucienne (agitated).

Oh, Henri, brother, I am filled with dread!
How came so queer a fancy in your head?

Henri.

Call it a whim, freak, folly, if you choose;
Only keep watch with me. You'll not refuse?

Lucienne.

I should not dare! And yet—if I relent—

Henri (kissing her).

Dear, kind Lucienne! I thought you would consent.
Now hear my plan. Although a dangerous one,
Its very spice of danger lends it fun.
Our nurse, Florine, till two o'clock at least
Will dance, most likely, at the village feast.
She's stolen away, and begged me not to tell;
And I, be sure, will keep her secret well.
We to our chambers will meanwhile repair.
And till the clock strikes twelve hold vigil there.
Then we shall both glide out on stealthy feet,
And—

Lucienne.

Feel my heart, Henri. Just hear it beat!

Henri.

Oh, nonsense! Think how glorious it will be
To find him here, and know 'tis really he!
They say that midnight is his favorite hour
To show the merry magic of his power.
And if we spy upon his movements then,
We'll see him here alive. Oh, think, Lucienne!

Lucienne (starting and looking about).

But if your plan by any chance he knew,
What awful deed might Santa Claus not do?
Suppose that quickly as the turn of dice
His anger changed us into cats or mice?
Suppose as reindeers he should make us drag,
With monstrous horns, and feet that never flag,
The tinkling sled in which he journeys forth
Each Christmas-eve, from wild realms of the North?

Henri (laughing).

A doleful penance for so slight a sin!—
Come; they who nothing venture, nothing win.

Lucienne.

But, mind, we'll only peep from either door;
We might indeed repent if we did more.

Henri.
True, Sister; for a little while we part.
Until the Clock strikes Twelve be stout of Heart.

Henri (kissing her).

True, sister; for a little while we part.
Until the clock strikes twelve be stout of heart.

Lucienne (as they separate).

On kind old Santa Claus to play the spies?

Henri (taking candle from R.).

Our plan is made. Good-night till twelve o'clock.

Lucienne (taking candle from L.).

What noise was that? It gave me such a shock!

Henri (listening).

A wainscot mouse that somehow came to grief.
Good-night.

Lucienne.

Good-night. I'm trembling like a leaf.

[Exeunt Henri and Lucienne at R. and L. doors. Each carries away candle, and the stage is now wrapped in dimness.

Enter Gaspard and Eloise from R. corridor. Gaspard follows Eloise in slow, attentive way. He wears a doublet of some dull red material, with yarn stockings and low buckled shoes. Eloise wears a dress that reaches above her ankles, and a dainty white apron, into which she occasionally thrusts both hands.]

Eloise.

I pray you, Gaspard, cease these foolish airs,
These love-sick sighs and sentimental stares.
They've thrown Madame already in a pet;
She thinks me quite too young to marry yet.

Gaspard.

Unpitying girl! I scarcely can believe
You'd show such cruelty on Christmas-eve.
I'll hang no stocking ere I rest to-night;
If filled at all 'twould not be filled aright. [Sighs deeply.]

Eloise (archly).

And how would you prefer it filled, Sir Tease?

Gaspard.

How save with one kind smile from Eloise!

Eloise.

My smiles are not so cheaply gained as that.
Be off at once, and stop your silly chat!
'Tis nearly twelve—the hour, as rumor tells,
When Santa Claus begins his goblin spells.
Ah, could I once, with these two favored eyes,
The good Saint at his kindly task surprise,
I'd give—

Gaspard (eagerly).

You'd give—well, what, Eloise?—your heart?

Eloise.

Why, certainly. But then you need not start.
There's no occasion to express content
By quite misunderstanding what I meant.

Gaspard (very agitatedly).

I don't misunderstand—oh, not at all.
You meant that if by chance it should befall
Yourself, Eloise, at midnight here to stray,
And look on Santa Claus, you might repay
Such privilege by—

Eloise.

Ah, could I see the Saint,
Speeding his jovial pranks, with visage quaint,
'Twere hard to warn you where my grateful mood
Would place the limit of its gratitude.

Gaspard [aside].

What if to-night, disguised with cunning art,
I should myself enact Kris Kringle's part?

Eloise.

Well, I must hurry on; the hour grows late.

Gaspard.
Steal here by Twelve o'Clock, with cautious Pace,
And turn your Look toward yonder Chimney-place.

Gaspard.

One moment, Eloise, I beg you wait.
The genial sprite whom you desire to meet
Perchance your longing gaze may really greet.
Steal here by twelve o'clock, with cautious pace,
And turn your look toward yonder chimney-place,
Then who shall say what marvel yet untold
'Twill be your happy fortune to behold?

Eloise [aside].

The sly deceiver! Would he dare assume
The guise of Santa Claus, and in the gloom
Of this deserted hall delude my sense,
Hoping to dupe me by some bold pretense?
I half believe so. Well, if this were true,
How nicely such deception he should rue!

Gaspard.

You'll come, Eloise?

Eloise.

Perhaps. I can't decide. [Going toward corridor at R.]

Gaspard (following her).

By all means let your wish be gratified.
Accept my counsel.—Stop one moment, please.

Eloise (hurrying off).

I'll think of it. Good-night. [Exit Eloise at R.]

Gaspard.

Nay, stop, Eloise!
Agree that when the clock strikes twelve you'll fare,
On timorous tiptoe, by the large North stair,
Down to this hall— [He pauses, looking off R.]

She's vanished like a dream!
Still, trust to fate, Gaspard, and work your scheme.

[Exit Gaspard at R., slapping breast confidently.

Enter the Baron Beautemps at L. The Baron is disguised as Santa Claus. He wears a white wig, a dark jerkin, with ruffled breeches reaching a little below the knee; he carries a pack of toys upon his back: he has a long white beard; his shoulders are sprinkled with powdery substance, representing snow. He turns on entering, and looks at the two stockings hung before chimney-place with a fond, happy smile.]

Baron.

Dear spotless little stockings, viewed with joy,
Pure memories of my darling girl and boy,
How tenderly though silently you tell
Of lightsome, pattering footsteps loved so well!

[Laughs to himself softly.]

Ah, me! that I, a noble great in rank,
Should thus at midnight play the mountebank!
And all because I guess how young Henri,
With curious eagerness, resolves to see
That mystic Saint of Christmas, whom no eye
Discerns, whom some believe in, some deny!
Zounds! what a foolish father I have grown!
Does Henri sleep, or will he come alone,
Just as the clock strikes twelve, in night array,
This fire-lit hall's weird shadows to survey?
Well, if he comes, the wicked rogue shall find
A Santa Claus quite suited to his mind.—
And yet, while fancying his childish glee,
A strange, unpleasant thought oppresses me:
Suppose it chanced that while I lingered here
The real Kris Kringle should himself appear!
That situation would indeed be fine
For one decked out in mimic robes like mine.
Still, since this garb was easy to obtain
From old ball costumes of our last King's reign,
And since I knew how Henri's heart was set
On seeing the good Saint whom so few have met,
I quietly determined for one hour
To frolic thus, forgetting state and power.

[Listens intently at R.]

A movement in the turret overhead.—
Some servant, doubtless, climbing to his bed.
Hark! steps! I'll fly at once—the sound grows near.
Too late. I am seen. Confusion!—who is here?

[Enter Gaspard at R. He is disguised as Santa Claus. He wears a pair of taffetas breeches uncouthly rolled up to his knees, gray yarn stockings, and an old jacket trimmed with rusty silver buttons. He has a broad hat shading his face, and carries upon his back some sort of huge stuffed sack. He stoops affectedly while walking, and employs the slow, tottering pace of an aged man. Just as he appears on stage, and while the Baron retreats bewilderedly toward L., twelve loud, solemn strokes sound, as if from a distant clock.]

Gaspard (who has observed the Baron) [aside].

Ah! Heaven, who can it be, in mercy's name?
That pack of toys, long beard, and stooping frame
'Tis Santa Claus, by everything that's queer!
My knees are failing me; I quake with fear.

Baron (watching Gaspard) [aside].

That loaded form—that hesitating gait—
'Tis Santa Claus himself, as sure as fate!
I've not sufficient strength to flee away.
I'm positively frozen with dismay.

[Gaspard and the Baron now eye each other in great comic bewilderment. The Baron gives a nervous cough, and Gaspard starts in ludicrous terror.]

Gaspard [aside].

I'm nearly dead with fright—I choke and pant.—
I'll speak to him—ask pardon. No, I can't.

[Gaspard here gives a heavy groan, at which the Baron starts in great alarm.]

Baron [aside].

Of course he means to do some dreadful thing.
Even now he seems preparing for a spring.

[The Baron here makes a loud shuddering sound, at which Gaspard sinks upon his knees.]

Gaspard [aside].

My legs have both collapsed—I'm most unwell.

Baron [aside].

Ye saints! he's muttering some horrid spell,
Calling some gnome, perchance, with grip of ice,
To shoot me up the chimney in a trice!

[While Gaspard and the Baron regard each other in the dimness with glances of mutual fear, Henri and Lucienne peep forth from doors at R. and L.]

Henri (only perceiving Gaspard at R., and speaking in an excited whisper).

'Tis he! I look on Santa Claus at last.

Lucienne (only perceiving the Baron, her father, at L.).

He's here! And oh, my poor heart beats so fast!

Henri (alluding to Gaspard).

With that large hat, his face I scarce behold.

Lucienne (alluding to the Baron).

He wears no hat to shield him from the cold.

Henri.

How strange he has no beard, as tales declare!

Lucienne.

How long his beard is, and how white his hair!

Henri.

I thought his clothes were snowy—it is not so.

Lucienne.

He's very thickly covered o'er with snow.

Henri (discovering the Baron also).

What! two of them! I can't believe it true.

Lucienne (discovering Gaspard).

Oh dear! I never dreamed there would be two!

Gaspard (rising, and staggering helplessly toward back of stage) [aside].

I feel that he observes me like a lynx;
No doubt of some dark punishment he thinks.
I'll try to escape from his revengeful glare;
Perhaps he'll drag me back, though, by the hair.
He turns his head—pursues me with his eye.
My doom is sealed.—I'm very young to die!

[Enter Eloise at R. She comes slowly and cautiously upon stage. As she does so, Gaspard conceals himself behind the curtain of window at R. of chimney-place. Eloise discovers the Baron, gives a sudden start, and then addresses audience in quick, agitated aside.]

Eloise [aside].

Beyond a doubt Gaspard is waiting there,
In beard and wig disguised with subtle care.
The artful scamp! how easy to perceive
This web of crafty guile he means to weave!
So, so, my clever trickster, you shall meet
Your match to-night in cunning and deceit.

[Aloud] (addressing the Baron.)

Pray are you Santa Claus? If this be true,
It gives me joy, great Saint, to welcome you.

Gaspard (half hidden behind curtain) [aside].

What store of courage has the charming jade!
Now on my life, she's not a bit afraid!
She thanks her stars for this fine stroke of luck;
Her curiosity has lent her pluck.

Baron [aside].

It's Eloise.—An awkward thing, forsooth,
If this young waiting-maid should learn the truth!
No gossip for a mile but straight would know
That I, their lord, had wandered his château
At midnight, clad more like a circus clown
Than some proud nobleman of high renown.
How shall I act? what say? I'm sick with dread.
The minx would doubtless follow if I fled.
Kris Kringle's gone, and I escape his ire,
Yet leave the frying-pan to find the fire.

[While the Baron speaks this aside, Eloise slowly draws nearer to him, examining his appearance as closely as the dim light will allow. Her manner shows extreme suppressed fun; she now and then places her hand over her mouth, as though to restrain herself from laughing aloud. Meanwhile Gaspard, still half concealed behind curtain, watches very intently what is passing. He seems distressed by the boldness of Eloise. He makes one or two gestures of eager learning, but Eloise entirely fails to perceive his presence. This affords Gaspard opportunity for much comic alarm and generally humorous by-play. The Baron retreats a little to L. as Eloise approaches him from R. At length Eloise addresses him, in a voice of mock gravity.]

Eloise.

Great Saint of Christmas! pardon, I beseech,
My wish to address you in poor mortal speech.
Yet now, while gazing on your reverend face,
I long to beg of you one special grace.

Gaspard (with signs of marked surprise) [aside].

Her words arouse in me an interest keen.
"One special grace." What can the vixen mean?

Baron [aside].

Was ever man more oddly placed than I?
She'll recognize my voice if I reply.

Eloise.

Ah! treat me not with silent unconcern,
But grant, great Saint, the boon for which I yearn!

Gaspard [aside].

What is the boon that she has come to seek?
And why on earth does Santa Claus not speak?

Baron [aside].

I must respond; it is my only choice.
Yet can I properly disguise my voice?

Henri (from doorway at R.) [aside].

It's Eloise; some favor she would crave.
Upon my word, she's wonderfully brave.

Lucienne (from doorway at L.) [aside].

How dare she go as near to him as that?
And where's the Santa Claus who wore the hat?

[Henri and Lucienne have been standing on the threshold of either chamber in foreground, with only their heads peeping forth from either doorway. They seem immensely concerned and occupied with all that is now going on. A little while previously they have discovered each other's presence, and made mutual signs of astonishment. Henri has lifted two fingers of right hand, thus indicating by expressive pantomime what surprise it has given him to find that there are two Santa Clauses instead of one. Lucienne has responded by similar pantomime.]

Eloise.

You're silent still. Oh, is it, then, because
You speak some different language, Santa Claus?
I know, for my part, but a single tongue;
I left off going to school when rather young.

[Aside] (with great secret amusement, while she looks toward audience.)

The wily rascal, he is dumb from fear,
His voice being so familiar to my ear.
I'll make him talk, or else my woman's wit
Is less adroit than I imagine it.

[Aloud once more, and in a voice of earnest pleading.]

Majestic Saint! how pitiless you are!
I wished to question you of one Gaspard,
A serving-man in Baron Beautemps' train,
Who loves me, and who grieves at my disdain.

[Eloise now lifts finger roguishly at audience, and turns sly looks toward the Baron as she does so. Gaspard leans forward from curtains, and listens with deep attention.]

Baron (speaking in a very gruff, hollow voice, totally unlike his usual tones).

Gaspard? Of him what question would you ask?
To deal with sweethearts never was my task.
If love's coquettish moods your phrase would paint,
'Twere best you should consult another saint.

[Eloise shows marked surprise as these words are spoken. The voice which the Baron uses evidently arouses her astonishment. But by the time he has ended she is once more looking at audience with same sly expression as before. Meanwhile Henri and Lucienne, as though terrified by the stern voice of him whom they suppose to be Santa Claus, close doors at R. and L., disappearing wholly from stage.]

Eloise [aside].

He's changed his voice; he's warier than I guessed.
Well, now, till all's revealed I'll never rest.

[Aloud.]

Nay, mighty Saint, I tell it to my grief,
This lad, Gaspard, torments me past belief.
In hall or corridor I scarce can pause
But there he waits to accost me, Santa Claus.
His flattery turns me ill; with sigh and groan
He vows that Nature wrought my heart from stone;
Now rude and fierce, now penitent and meek,
He swears to hang himself three times a week;
But most, indeed, my wearied soul regrets
The doleful chant of stupid canzonets
Which night by night below my window's ledge,
Perched like a monkey on a slant roof's edge,
He drones when all the vast château is mute,
Hugging against his breast a crack-stringed lute.

Gaspard [aside, and in tones of great melancholy].

Oh, Eloise, relentless and untrue!
Complained of as a nuisance! and by you!

[Gaspard covers face with hands, as though overwhelmed by grief.]

Baron [at first aside].

Good! I have fooled her, and with effort faint.
How easy it is to play the Christmas Saint!
A few more words that neatly shall beguile,
And lo! I'll flit away in ghostly style!

[Aloud, to Eloise.]

No more, I pray. 'Tis not for me to deal
With lovers' destinies, their woe or weal.
That here within my presence you should come
But proves you singularly venturesome.
This once to o'erlook your rashness I will deign;
Pardon hereafter you shall seek in vain.
So stern the penalty for deeds thus bold,
Your very blood would curdle were it told;
Both limbs would fail your trembling form beneath,
Both jaws would scarce contain your chattering teeth.

[The Baron speaks these latter words in a terribly severe tone. Gaspard audibly shivers as he hears them. Eloise recoils and seems at first quite horrified. Then suddenly, as though reminding herself that it is, after all, not Santa Claus, but only her sweetheart disguised for the purpose of deceiving her, she tosses her head and regards the Baron very courageously, placing a hand, in the most saucy way, on each of her hips.]

Eloise.

No doubt I should be frightened half to death—
Should scream, should stagger, and should catch my breath,
And thus, indeed, I really might behave—
Being not by temperament very brave—
Did I not chance to more than merely guess
The shrewd impostor whom I now address.

Baron [aside].

Impostor? She discovers, then, my sham?
Has she discovered also who I am?

[Aloud, in same voice as before].

Retire in haste, young maid, and wisely shirk
To insult Kris Kringle at his goodly work!

Eloise (with sudden anger, stamping her foot, and, coming much nearer to the Baron).

Retire, indeed! And do you still surmise
I've not the sense to pierce your thin disguise?
I wonder, wicked knave that you appear,
The real Kris Kringle does not find you here,
And soundly punish you for this offense
In due proportion to its impudence.

[Eloise here gives a loud, mocking laugh, and abruptly tears wig from the Baron's head, afterward pulling beard from his face also.]

Of me, Gaspard, I'll teach you to make sport
With mask and mummery of this idle sort.
I'll bid you learn if Eloise will bear
Being juggled with by stratagems unfair.
I'll have you know—

Eloise. Ah, Heaven! what have i done?
Baron. You've counted on your Game before 'twas won.

(Discovering that it is the Baron, and showing great consternation.)

Ah, Heaven! what have I done?

Baron (good-humoredly).

You've counted on your game before 'twas won.

[Henri and Lucienne now peep forth cautiously from doors R. and L. They gaze for a moment in amazement at the Baron, and then advance toward him from either side of stage.]

Henri.

Papa, as I'm alive! How strange it seems!

Lucienne.

It's like the way things happen in one's dreams.

[Gaspard, as if thunderstruck, now quits his hiding-place, taking off hat and throwing aside his pack.]

Gaspard (to Eloise).

Ah, then, Eloise, those cruel words you spoke
Were all intended as a harmless joke?

Eloise (agitatedly).

Oh yes, Gaspard. I thought 'twas you disguised.
I never felt so startled—so surprised!

Henri.

'Tis such a disappointment! I could cry!

Lucienne.

I'd help you if you did, Henri.

Baron (caressing both children).

And why?

Henri.

Two Santa Clauses! Think, papa, what fun!
And now you haven't left us even one!

Baron.

Nay, never mind, dear children. We have seen
Two loving hearts grow blithesome and serene;
Made dark misunderstandings melt away
From both, like sombre vapors touched with day.

[The Baron looks toward Gaspard and Eloise, who hold each other's hands, exchanging smiles of reconciliation.]

Eloise (with sudden anxiety, addressing the Baron).

Oh, master, will you pardon my rude act?

Baron.

Agreed; but one condition I exact:
Gaspard and you must promise both to keep
My own sly masquerade a secret deep.

Gaspard and Eloise.

We promise, master!

Baron.

Well, so be it; and I
Perchance will well reward you by-and-by.
The Baroness in my hearing lately said
That Eloise was still too young to wed.
But possibly persuasion may invent
Some private means of making her relent.

Gaspard. Oh, Thanks! a thousand Thanks, benignant Lord!

Gaspard (delightedly).

Oh, thanks! a thousand thanks, benignant lord!

Henri (to his father).

Shall Lucienne and myself gain no reward
For keeping silent, as your will decrees,
Like happy Gaspard and his Eloise?

Baron (taking one of the children's hands in each of his own).

Ah, when you wake to-morrow, both shall find
Your stockings with sweet treasures richly lined.
Hie straight to bed, and ere the day return
Let each one here a valued lesson learn:
Gaspard and I shall grant, grown more discreet,
That danger paves the pathway to deceit;
While you, Henri, Lucienne, Eloise, shall own
That oft the unknown had best remain unknown;
Nor strive as now, on Christmas-eve, to delve
In goblin mysteries, while the clock strikes twelve.

[All join hands and bow, as curtain falls.]

END OF PLAY.

NURSERY TILES-"THERE HE IS!"

[HOW IT ALL HAPPENED.]

A Christmas Story.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

It was a small room, with nothing in it but a bed, two chairs, and a big chest. A few little gowns hung on the wall, and the only picture was the wintry sky, sparkling with stars, framed by the uncurtained window. But the moon, pausing to peep, saw something pretty and heard something pleasant. Two heads in little round night-caps lay on one pillow, two pairs of wide-awake blue eyes stared up at the light, and two tongues were going like mill clappers.

"I'm so glad we got our shirts done in time! It seemed as if we never should, and I don't think six cents is half enough for a great red flannel thing with three buttonholes—do you?" said one little voice, rather wearily.

"No; but then we each made four, and fifty cents is a good deal of money. Are you sorry we didn't keep our quarters for ourselves?" asked the other voice, with an under-tone of regret in it.

"Yes, I am, till I think how pleased the children will be with our tree, for they don't expect anything, and will be so surprised. I wish we had more toys to put on it, for it looks so small and mean with only three or four things."

"It won't hold any more, so I wouldn't worry about it. The toys are very red and yellow, and I guess the babies won't know how cheap they are, but like them as much as if they cost heaps of money."

This was a cheery voice, and as it spoke the four blue eyes turned toward the chest under the window, and the kind moon did her best to light up the tiny tree standing there. A very pitiful little tree it was—only a branch of hemlock in an old flower-pot, propped up with bits of coal, and hung with a few penny toys earned by the patient fingers of the elder sisters, that the little ones should not be disappointed.

But in spite of the magical moonlight the broken branch, with its scanty supply of fruit, looked pathetically poor, and one pair of eyes filled slowly with tears, while the other pair lost their happy look, as if a cloud had come over the sunshine.

"Are you crying, Dolly?"

"Not much, Polly."

"What makes you, dear?"

"I didn't know how poor we were till I saw the tree, and then I couldn't help it," sobbed the elder sister, for at twelve she already knew something of the cares of poverty, and missed the happiness that seemed to vanish out of all their lives when father died.

"It's dreadful. I never thought we'd have to earn our tree, and only be able to get a broken branch, after all, with nothing on it but three sticks of candy, two squeaking dogs, a red cow, and an ugly bird with one feather in its tail;" and overcome by a sudden sense of destitution, Polly sobbed even more despairingly than Dolly.

"Hush, dear; we must cry softly, or mother will hear, and come up, and then we shall have to tell. You know we said we wouldn't seem to mind not having any Christmas, she felt so sorry about it."

"I must cry, but I'll be quiet."

So the two heads went under the pillow for a few minutes, and not a sound betrayed them as the little sisters cried softly in one another's arms, lest mother should discover that they were no longer careless children, but brave young creatures trying to bear their share of the burden cheerfully.

When the shower was over, the faces came out shining like roses after rain, and the voices went on again as before.

"Don't you wish there really was a Santa Claus, who knew what we wanted, and would come and put two silver half-dollars in our stockings, so we could go and see Puss in Boots at the Museum to-morrow afternoon?"

"Yes, indeed; but we didn't hang up any stockings, you know, because mother had nothing to put in them. It does seem as if rich people might think of poor people now and then. Such little bits of things would make us happy, and it couldn't be much trouble to take two small girls to the play, and give them candy now and then."

"I shall when I'm rich, like Mr. Chrome and Miss Kent. I shall go round every Christmas with a big basket of goodies, and give all the poor children some."

"P'r'aps if we sew ever so many flannel shirts we may be rich by-and-by. I should give mother a new bonnet first of all, for I heard Miss Kent say no lady would wear such a shabby one. Mrs. Smith said fine bonnets didn't make real ladies. I like her best, but I do want a locket like Miss Kent's."

"I should give mother some new rubbers, and then I should buy a white apron, with frills like Miss Kent's, and bring home nice bunches of grapes and good things to eat, as Mr. Chrome does. I often smell them, but he never gives me any; he only says, 'Hullo, chick!' and I'd rather have oranges any time."

"It will take us a long while to get rich, I'm afraid. It makes me tired to think of it. I guess we'd better go to sleep now, dear."

"Good-night, Dolly."

"Good-night, Polly."

Two soft kisses were heard, a nestling sound followed, and presently the little sisters lay fast asleep, cheek against cheek, on the pillow wet with their tears, never dreaming what was going to happen to them to-morrow.

Now Miss Kent's room was next to theirs, and as she sat sewing she could hear the children's talk, for they soon forgot to whisper. At first she smiled, then she looked sober, and when the prattle ceased she said to herself, as she glanced about her pleasant chamber:

"Poor little things! they think I'm rich, and envy me, when I'm only a milliner earning my living. I ought to have taken more notice of them, for their mother has a hard time, I fancy, but never complains. I'm sorry they heard what I said, and if I knew how to do it without offending her, I'd trim a nice bonnet for a Christmas gift, for she is a lady, in spite of her old clothes. I can give the children some of the things they want anyhow, and I will. The idea of those mites making a fortune out of shirts at six cents apiece!"

Miss Kent laughed at the innocent delusion, but sympathized with her little neighbors, for she knew all about hard times. She had good wages now, but spent them on herself, and liked to be fine rather than neat. Still, she was a good-hearted girl, and what she had overheard set her to thinking soberly, then to acting kindly, as we shall see.

"If I hadn't spent all my money on my dress for the party to-morrow night, I'd give each of them a half-dollar. As I can not, I'll hunt up the other things they wanted, for it's a shame they shouldn't have a bit of Christmas, when they tried so hard to please the little ones."